Northanger Abbey

  Northanger Abbey

  Also by Val McDermid

  A Place of Execution

  Killing the Shadows

  The Distant Echo

  The Grave Tattoo

  A Darker Domain

  Trick of the Dark

  The Vanishing Point

  TONY HILL NOVELS

  The Mermaids Singing

  The Wire in the Blood

  The Last Temptation

  The Torment of Others

  Beneath the Bleeding

  Fever of the Bone

  The Retribution

  Cross and Burn

  KATE BRANNIGAN NOVELS

  Dead Beat

  Kick Back

  Crack Down

  Clean Break

  Blue Genes

  Star Struck

  LINDSAY GORDON NOVELS

  Report for Murder

  Common Murder

  Final Edition

  Union Jack

  Booked for Murder

  Hostage to Murder

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  The Writing on the Wall

  Stranded

  Christmas is Murder

  NON FICTION

  A Suitable Job for a Woman

  Northanger

  Abbey

  VAL

  McDERMID

  Grove Press

  New York

  Copyright © 2014 by Val McDermid

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

  First published in Great Britain in 2014

  by The Borough Press

  An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-0-8021-2301-5

  eISBN 978-0-8021-8039-1

  Grove Press

  an imprint of Grove/ Atlantic, Inc.

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  www.groveatlantic.com

  14 15 16 17 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Joanna Steven, constant reader, constant friend, who is indirectly responsible for introducing me to the delights of the Piddle Valley.

  Acknowledgements

  I’d first like to thank Jane Austen, without whom this book could never have come into existence. She’s given me countless hours of pleasure, and I’d like to think there’s a quantum universe somewhere where she is getting her own back reimagining Tony Hill and Carol Jordan.

  My eternal gratitude goes to Julia Wisdom, who had the chutzpah to offer this irresistible assignment to me and who has always believed in my ability to achieve the unlikely.

  As usual, I tip my hat to the queen of copy editors, Anne O’Brien, to my agent Jane Gregory and to Kiri Gillespie, who never complains. Thanks also to the team at HarperCollins who have supported the Austen Project with such quiet efficiency.

  And thanks finally to my family and friends who never let me down in spite of extreme provocation.

  1

  It was a source of constant disappointment to Catherine Morland that her life did not more closely resemble her books. Or rather, that the books in which she found its likeness were so unexciting. Plenty of novels were set in small country villages and towns like the Dorset hamlet where she lived. Admittedly, they didn’t all have such ridiculous names as the ones in the Piddle Valley where her father’s group of parishes was centred. It would have been hard to make credible a romantic fiction set in Farleigh Piddle, Middle Piddle, Nether Piddle and Piddle Dummer. But in every other respect, books about country life were just like home, only duller, if that were possible. The books that made her heart beat faster were never set anywhere she had ever been.

  Cat, as she preferred to be known – on the basis that nobody should emerge from their teens with the name their parents had chosen – had been disappointed by her life for as long as she could remember. Her family were, in her eyes, deeply average and desperately dull. Her father ministered to five Church of England parishes with good-natured charm and a gift for sermons that were not quite entertaining but not quite boring either. Her mother had given up primary school teaching for the unpaid job of vicar’s wife, which she accomplished with few complaints and enough imagination to leaven its potential for dreariness. If she’d had an annual performance review, it would have read, ‘Annie Morland is a cheerful and hard-working team member who treats problems as challenges. Her hens are, for the third year in a row, the best layers in the Piddle Valley.’ Her parents seldom argued, never fought. Between the two of them, there wasn’t a single dark secret.

  Even their home was a disappointment to Cat. Ten years before her birth, the Church of England had sold the draughty Victorian Gothic vicarage to an advertising executive from London and built a modern executive home with all the aesthetic appeal of a cornflakes packet for the vicar and his family. In spite of its relatively recent construction it had developed just as many draughts as its predecessor with none of the charm. It was not a backdrop that fuelled her imagination one whit.

  Cat’s tomboy childhood had been a product of her desire to be the heroine of her own adventure. The stories she had first heard and later read for herself had fired her imagination and given her a fantasy world to play with. Her delight at having siblings – older brother James and younger sisters Sarah and Emily – was largely due to the roles she was able to assign them in her elaborate scenarios of battling monsters, rescuing the beleaguered and conquering distant planets.

  For most children blessed – or cursed – with so vivid an imagination, the natural outlet is school. But Annie Morland had experienced what she called ‘the education factories’ at first hand and it had left her with a firm conviction that her children would best thrive under her own instruction. And so Cat and her siblings were denied exposure to a classroom and playground society that might have subjected them to life’s harsher realities. No one ever stole their dinner money or humiliated them in front of a roomful of their peers. Instead, they came under the constant scrutiny of a mother and father who wanted only the best for them.

  James, blessed with natural wit and intelligence, would have succeeded whatever educational system had been imposed on him. And Cat, who cared more for narrative than knowledge, would probably have done no better wherever she’d been taught. They would certainly have become wiser in the ways of the world if they’d escaped their mother’s apron strings, but had that been the case, their story would be too commonplace to hold much interest for an ardent reader.

  Their only significant contact with their peers happened in the small park that had been created from a water meadow donated to the village on the occasion of the Queen’s Silver Jubilee. The gift had been made by an international agribusiness keen to catch the eye of the Prince of Wales; and besides, the field had no significant agricultural potential since it lay within an oxbow of the Piddle and so could not be aggregated into one of the prairies so beloved by commercial farming. The park contained a football pitch, a tennis court, an adventure playground and, thanks to an A
merican couple who had moved into the Old Schoolhouse, a rudimentary baseball diamond. Whenever school was out, the field acted as a child magnet. Little was formally organised, but there were always pick-up games of one sort or another into which the junior Morlands were readily absorbed. Cat particularly enjoyed any sort of ball game that included rolling or sliding in the dirt.

  Cat progressed from tomboy to teenager without showing any academic or sporting distinction whatsoever. Her enthusiasm seldom lasted long enough to produce any solid results. Often her mother despaired of ever managing to shoehorn a French irregular verb or a simple algebraic equation into her daughter’s brain. After a nature walk, Cat would rather sit round the fire telling ghost stories than discussing the flora and fauna they’d seen in the woods and fields. She made notes when her mother insisted, then promptly mislaid them. Whenever she could drag their lesson off track, she did. In a history lesson, Annie would suddenly realise that instead of learning about Tudor foreign policy, her daughter was making the case for Henry VIII’s much-married state.

  Faced with constant failure, Annie tried to find an explanation. Perhaps Cat was one of those individuals whose right brain dominated, making them creative, musical and imaginative. ‘Does that also include being utterly incapable of focusing on anything for more than two minutes at a time?’ her husband asked with mild exasperation when she outlined this theory to him one night as they retired to bed. ‘Who knows if she’s musical or creative? She says she loves music but she never practises the piano. She says she loves stories but she never finishes any of the ones she starts writing. She can’t be bothered earning pocket money because there’s nothing she wants to spend it on. All she wants are novels, and she can get as many of those as she wants from our bookshelves and the library bus. Honestly, Annie, as far as I can tell, she inhabits an entirely separate universe from the rest of us. She’s a completely dozy article.’

  ‘And what kind of future is she going to have?’ Annie tried not to admit pessimism into any area of her life, but where her eldest daughter was concerned, it was hard not to let it sneak in through the slightest crack in her defences.

  ‘One that requires no qualifications other than a good heart,’ Richard Morland said, rolling over and punching his pillow into submission. ‘Look how good she is with the little ones. Catherine will be fine,’ he added with more confidence than his wife thought he had any right to. That, she supposed, was where your faith came in.

  Cat meanwhile was sleeping the sleep of the unconcerned, lost in happy dreams of adventure and romance. The details of her future never disturbed her interior life. She was serenely convinced that she would be a heroine. In her mind, all her life had been a preparation for that role. That wasn’t to say there wouldn’t be obstacles. Anybody who knew anything about adventures knew there would be stumbling blocks aplenty along the way to true love and happiness. Their families would be at war or her beloved would turn out to be a vampire or they would be separated by an ocean or an apparently terminal illness. But she would triumph and conquer every barrier to a satisfactory ending.

  The only problem was how these exploits were going to get started. Years of ranging through the back gardens and living rooms of Piddle Wallop under cover of childish games and pastimes had convinced her she knew all there was to know of her neighbours. Of course, she was entirely mistaken in this assumption, but her blissful conviction was unlikely to be overturned while she paid more attention to the inside of her head than the secrets of those who surrounded her. As far as Cat was concerned, she knew nobody who was likely to provoke any sort of adventure. If she was going to embark on an escapade, she would first have to escape the narrow confines of the Piddle Valley. And she couldn’t see how she was ever going to manage that.

  She was on the brink of despair when the impossible happened. In one brief moment, her prospects were transformed. Like Cinderella, it appeared that Cat was going to have her chance after all. If not at Prince Charming, then at least at the twenty-first century equivalent of the ball.

  Their neighbours, Susie and Andrew Allen, were the culture vultures of the Piddle Valley. Andrew was the shrewdest of angels. His eye for theatrical gold had led him to a tidy fortune through investment in the West End commercial stage. He had no particular love of the performing arts but he possessed the knack of knowing what would please the popular taste.

  For years, he had spent the summer in Edinburgh for the Festival, cramming every day to capacity with Fringe performances and Book Festival events that might conceivably inspire a musical. But a minor heart attack had felled him in the spring and Susie had insisted that this year must be different. This year, she would accompany him and he would be permitted to attend a maximum of two shows a day. ‘Because there are plenty of ways to have a good time in Edinburgh without having to sit through a one-woman show of King Lear, or a comedian doing Jane Austen’s Men,’ she’d said to Annie Morland. For although Susie Allen had herself been an actress, she had a surprisingly low threshold of attention when it came to attending the theatre.

  But in order for Susie to enjoy those good times, she needed a companion for the awkward occasions when Andrew insisted on seeing a show whose description alone made her shudder. She had a very clear idea of the style of companionship she wanted. Someone whose youth would reflect positively on her; someone whose unformed opinions would have insufficient grounding to contradict hers; and someone who would attract interesting company without ever dominating it.

  This was not how Susie expressed the matter either to herself or to the Morlands. And thus Cat was to be found one morning at the beginning of August packing her bag for a month in the Athens of the North, excited and delighted in equal measure.

  2

  No golden coach with white horses was laid on to transport Cat to Edinburgh. Instead, she faced the prospect of spending eight hours confined in the back seat of Susie and Andrew Allen’s Volvo estate. But Cat was convinced she’d be fine, even though she’d never been further than Bristol in the Morlands’ ancient people carrier. In the car, she’d be able to sleep and to read, those two essential components of her life.

  There was no elaborate leave-taking of her parents. It was as if they had exhausted their potential for making a fuss of departing children when James had left four years before for Oxford. Cat had to admit to a twinge of disappointment at the apparent indifference of her family to her imminent absence. True, her mother gave her a smothering hug but it was followed by a brusque reminder to take her vitamins every morning. ‘And don’t forget you’re on a budget. Don’t blow the lot in the first few days. What you’ve got has to last you a month. You can’t turn to the bank of mum and dad if you run out of cash,’ she’d added sternly. Annie displayed not a sign of concern about what dangers might lurk on the streets of Edinburgh, in spite of having read the crime novels of both Ian Rankin and Kate Atkinson.

  Hoping for something a little more affectionate or apprehensive, Cat turned to her sisters. ‘I’ll text you when I get there,’ she said. ‘And I’ll be on Facebook and Twitter big time.’

  Sarah shrugged, either from envy or indifference. ‘Whatever,’ she mumbled.

  ‘I’ll post photos too.’

  Emily looked away, apparently fascinated by the contrail left by a fighter jet. ‘If you like.’

  Cat gave her father a look of appeal, hoping he at least would display some sign of dreading her departure. He slung a companionable arm round her shoulders and drew her away from the driveway towards the ramshackle garage where he indulged his woodworking hobby. ‘I’ve got a little something for you,’ he said.

  Fearing another of his wooden trinket boxes, Cat let herself be led out of the sight of her mother and sisters. Instead, her father dug into the pocket of his jeans and produced a pair of crumpled twenty-pound notes. ‘Here’s a little extra spends for you.’ He put the money in her palm and folded her fingers over it.

  ‘Have you been robbing the collection plate?’ she teased him.


  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘There would have been more but the congregation’s been down this month. Listen, Cat. This is a great opportunity for you to see a bit of the world outside your window. Make the most of it.’

  She threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. ‘Thanks, Dad. You always get it. This is the start of an amazing adventure. All these years, I’ve been reading about exciting exploits and wild escapades, and now I’m actually going to have one of my own.’

  Richard’s smile held a touch of sadness. ‘I remember reading Swallows and Amazons and the Famous Five books and thinking that was how my life was going to be. But it didn’t turn out like that, Cat. Don’t be disappointed if your trip to Edinburgh doesn’t play out like a Harry Potter story.’

  Cat snorted. ‘Harry Potter? Even little kids don’t believe Harry Potter’s for real. You can’t long for something you know is totally fantasy. It’s got to feel real before you can believe it could happen to you.’

  Her father rumpled her long curly hair. ‘You’re talking to the wrong person. I believe in the Bible, remember?’

  ‘Yeah, but you’re not one of those crazies who think the Old Testament is history. What I mean is, all that magic and sorcery – nobody could believe that. But when I read about vampires, it could be true. It could be the way things are beneath the surface. Everything fits. It makes sense in a way that Quidditch and silly spells don’t.’

  Richard laughed. ‘Well, I hope you can have an adventure in Edinburgh without being bitten by a vampire.’

  Cat rolled her eyes. ‘Such a cliché, Dad. That’s so not what the undead are all about.’

  Before he could respond, they were interrupted by a car horn. ‘Your carriage awaits,’ Richard said, gently pushing her out of the garage ahead of him.

  The journey north was uneventful. In deference to Cat’s taste in literature, Susie had downloaded an abridged audio book of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. For Cat, schooled only in contemporary vampire romance, it was a curious and unsettling experience. It reminded her of the first time she’d tasted an olive. It was unlike everything that had crossed her palate before; strange and not quite pleasant, yet gilded with the promise of sophistication. This was what she would like when she knew enough of the world, it seemed to say. It was a guarantee that was more than enough to keep her focused on the conflict between the Transylvanian count and Professor Van Helsing.